


What Might Have Been

by ericajanebarry



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 01:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6545857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ericajanebarry/pseuds/ericajanebarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard and Isobel consider what their life together may have looked like if they had met years earlier. Fluffy, angsty, NSFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Might Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> Written, oddly enough, for Valentine's Day 2016.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Property of Lord Fellowes. If he'd let me have them, well ... suffice it to say it'd be a very different world.

Richard found Isobel in their bedroom, standing in front of the full-length mirror with a hand pressed to her abdomen and a faraway look in her eyes. She had been quiet all evening, preoccupied. When he'd asked her about it she had waved him off, blaming her silence on a headache. He'd offered her a powder but she declined, saying she was going to take a bath. That had been some time ago and he'd assumed she had gone to bed afterward.

When he caught sight of her now he was alarmed, feeling the doctor in him rise up instantly.

"Isobel?" he asked, taking note of the way she startled at the sound of his voice. "Are you well?"

She turned toward him and he could see she'd been crying. "It's nothing like that, Richard," she replied softly, reading his thoughts. "I'm fine … physically." She watched as he approached and held her hands out to him. He took one of hers in his and brought the other to her cheek.

"Then what are these about?" he asked, wiping away the tears that hadn't dried. She shook her head and leaned into his touch.

"I'm afraid to tell you," she whispered brokenly. "It'll sound foolish."

Richard drew her into his arms, embracing her tightly. "I have never thought you foolish, my girl," he said. "Unfiltered? Yes. Brazen? On a daily basis. But never foolish." He attempted to lighten the mood and it worked as she smiled beautifully in response to his ribbing. He returned her smile and smoothed his hands over her back and shoulders. "In all seriousness ... you know you can tell me anything, don't you?"

She nodded, melting into his embrace. Now that he stood here before her, she realized the folly of her misgivings about sharing the pain in her heart with him.

He lifted her chin and made her meet his eyes. "Tell me," he urged.

She closed her eyes. It made her feel too vulnerable, the thought of him looking into her eyes, into her soul, as she said the next words.

"Do you ever wish we had come together sooner? That we had met … younger?" The question felt strange on her lips and she wondered whether it sounded as odd to his ears.

He could almost hear her thinking and he knew she wasn't through, so he held her in silence, swaying her gently.

After a minute she continued. "I was alone for so long, Richard. I was thirty-nine when Reggie died. I wouldn't change a moment of the twenty years we had together, but I can't help thinking … If only I'd met you … after. We'd have had years; a lifetime. We could have …" She trailed off, turning her face away from him as tears spilled over.

"Isobel," he soothed, making her name a caress. "It's all right, mo ghràidh. I'm listening."

At these words she smiled through the tears and took his hands, lacing their fingers together. He was the best listener she had ever known. They were so well-matched in that regard; she with no shortage of things to say and he with no end to his ability to hear her, the heart behind the words.

She looked into his eyes, beautiful, fathomless and kind. "We could've had a family, Richard. Haven't you ever wondered what that would have been like?"

He ran his hands through her hair, loose around her shoulders after the bath and smelling heavenly.

"Indeed, I have wondered," he replied gently. "I saw you with Matthew. I watch you now with our grandchildren and it gives me quite a thrill. You're a born nurturer, Isobel. Seeing you interact with them is like witnessing art in motion. I would have loved to have had that with you; seen you with our children."

"Our children," she echoed, her voice just above a whisper. "You would have wanted a family with me?"

"Very much," he replied, turning her toward the mirror once again and standing close behind her. "Can I show you something?"

She nodded, gazing at the picture made by the two of them in the mirror. She could feel his breath on her skin as he, too, took a moment to look at their reflection. A low-level hum of something like electrical current began to build inside her, embers slowly fanning to flame.

Richard slid his hands low around Isobel's waist and laid a trail of hot, wet kisses on the back of her neck. She moaned and felt her knees go weak. He always knew when she needed this, his hands on her, his well-chosen words of love; the bond that existed between the two of them and no one else.

"Isobel," he said softly, flattening his palms just above her pubic bone, the warmth of his hands suffusing through the thin satin of her nightgown. "My baby … right here …" He held her still and she almost didn't dare breathe, such was the intimacy of the moment.

"Yes," she affirmed with a sob, looking back over her shoulder at him.

"It would have been a good look for you, beloved." She heard the unevenness in his voice, as though he, too, were close to tears. "Holding you like this … just like this." He kissed the side of her neck, his teeth nipping lightly. She nodded. "Feeling our baby move within you … I have thought about it so many times, my darling."

"Have you?" Her voice was shaky as she tried to rein in her tears, and she reached back to cup the side of his face in her hand as they continued to watch their image in the mirror.

"You'd have been so lovely; breathtaking. And I'd have been so proud, watching you grow with a new life that our love created. I would not have been able to keep my hands to myself." They both smiled knowingly at his words and he knew what was coming.

"Of course you wouldn't; you certainly can't now!" She sniffed and they both laughed, the mood lightened momentarily.

"And I've never once heard you complain," he retorted, swaying a bit with her in his arms.

"And you never will," she answered lightheartedly, determined to have the last word. She treasured the freedom that was found in their ability to banter in the midst of sadness.

"Come here, darling," he said, leading her to their bed. He sat against the headboard and she came to rest with her back against his chest, sighing contentedly. He held her in silence and she rested against him, soothed by his warmth, his nearness.

"And you'd have delivered them, our babies. Wouldn't you?" she asked after a time.

"Aye," he rumbled, and she felt it against her back where their bodies touched. "Of course I would. Their daddy would have been the first to look into their eyes. Followed by their mum in short order, of course." As she turned to look at him over her shoulder, he winked, and her eyes crinkled in a smile.

"Daddy," she echoed. "You'd have been a wonderful one. You'd have helped me with nighttime feedings, held me while I nursed them."

He nodded against her. "Let you lie in in the mornings, brought you breakfast in bed. Bathed them and changed them and rocked them to sleep at night. And then I'd have rocked their mum to sleep."

She smiled, tears running down her cheeks. "Beautiful man," she whispered. "And you'd have sung them lullabies … in Gaelic, of course."

"Indeed, and so would you. You remember so many of them from when your mother sang them to you. And as soon as they were old enough, you'd have sat them right next to you on the piano bench, taught them the great hymns. We'd have had the only two-year-olds who could sing 'A Mighty Fortress is Our God.'"

She smiled through the tears once again. "And you'd have danced with our girls like you dance with our Sybbie; stood them on your feet and taught them to waltz. It would've taken my breath away to see you with our daughters. And they'd have grown up to look for husbands who were just like their daddy."

"We'd have had four, I think," he said decisively, dropping a kiss upon her shoulder. "Two of each. Boys first … my daughters would need older brothers to look after them, especially if they favored their mum."

She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. "Two of them would have been redheads. The oldest boy and the youngest girl. His eyes would be brown like mine, and hers the brightest, clearest blue. Just like yours."

"And our second son would've had your coloring, with my freckles. The oldest girl would've been fair, with dark hair and blue eyes like your mother's. Like Matthew's."

"And Matthew would have eaten it up, having all those little siblings. He always wanted them, and he loved his cousins, my brother's children." She went quiet and so did he, the both of them daydreaming.

"They'd have had lovely Celtic names," she said after a time. "Our eldest would've been Egan, your middle name. And I'd love to have an Elspeth, for Elsie."

"Aye," he agreed. "And the younger boy, the one who favors you … we'd call him Findlay, pay tribute to your middle name and your mother's first."

"Thank you," she said softly. "What about the baby?"

"My mother was Máirín and as a younger man I always thought if I had a daughter she'd be named for Mum."

"Very pretty," Isobel assented. "I had an Aunt Máirín. She was my favorite."

She paused and turned to face him. "Richard, thank you for dreaming with me. It's one of the things I love best about us, the way we still dream together. I can't tell you how relieved I am that you don't find me absurd for thinking about these things."

She lifted the hem of her nightgown and straddled his lap and he wrapped his arms around her, his hands rubbing soothing circles over her back.

"Absurd is the farthest thing from what you are," he replied solemnly. "I spent a lifetime waiting for someone to dream with, my Bel. I find it most extraordinary that you're willing to indulge me."

"Always, Richard," she replied, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Always."

He caught her bottom lip between his before she could pull back from the kiss she'd given him, and her arms came around his neck. His kiss was hungry and she matched his fervor. Their emotions were so very close to the surface and they both needed the affirmation of security that could only be found in the other's arms, in the other's body.

"I need you," Richard rasped, his eyes raking over her form, clad as she was in a simple slip of a nightgown that did little to conceal her figure, the curves and planes he now knew so well and still longed for so ardently.

"Yes," she whispered. "Be with me, my love."

He moved to cradle her in his arms and lay her down gently, pausing as he knelt beside her to drink her in.

It was arresting for Isobel to watch him looking at her this way, disarming and exhilarating at the same time. He looks at me like I'm in my prime, she thought. And then it occurred to her: perhaps she was.

"God, Richard," she breathed, "the way you look at me ... I feel beautiful."

"Isobel." The tone of his voice was deadly serious, and she looked at him and found she couldn't look away.

"Yes?" Her breath caught as she said it.

"Isobel. You are beautiful. Intoxicating. With me, apart from me, all the time. I want to see you." Richard slid the straps of the gown off her shoulders. Isobel kept her eyes locked on his, shrugging the garment away. He helped her off with it and she felt the heat of his gaze on her bare breasts.

"Beautiful," Richard said once more.

"I love you, Richard. Do you know that? Do you know that I mean that … as strongly as you mean that I'm beautiful? And that's why this … making love … is so powerful."

"I do know, Isobel. I believe you. And I love you so." Richard kissed the hollow of her collarbone, his hands skimming over her shoulders before weighing her breasts. Her breath hitched.

"What do you want?" he whispered, because he wanted to know but also because it thrilled him to hear her say it.

"I want - I need your mouth on me … Here." And she guided his head to her breast. He kissed her there, the underside first before his lips brushed against her nipple. His mouth closed around it and she moaned, her knuckles white as her hands fisted the sheets.

Her heart was broken; her heart was full. She wept for what they'd never have and treasured the way he filled as much of the void as he could. "Oh, Richard," she sobbed. "I never had our children at my breast but I have you …Oh, love!"

He lifted his head to look at her, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it. "I know, mo mhuirnín. I'm here with you, always. Let me love you."

"Yes," she breathed, and as he lingered at her breasts she stroked his hair. He knew how she loved this, how sensitive she was to his ministrations and how they mended shattered fragments of her heart.

After some time she reached for his hand, pulling him toward her. "Will you … will you undress and lie with me? I need to be against your skin."

Her earnest vulnerability both aroused him and broke his heart. "Oh, precious," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for trusting me enough to ask for what you need. Will you—" He knelt beside her and she nodded her head, knew what he was asking.

Her hands went to the lapels of his dressing gown, sliding downward to where it tied and working the knot loose. She rose up to kiss his shoulders and chest as she rid him of the robe. "Lie down, love," she whispered, and when he did she lay her head on his belly for a moment, her palm over his heart. When she lifted her head to look into his eyes the gaze they shared spoke of all the things that words could not. She kissed his chest, his abdomen, moving lower, down to the waistband of his undershorts.

"Lift your hips for me," she urged, and when he did she slid her hands beneath the fabric, her palm sliding over his length as she pulled his shorts down and off. He hissed when she touched him and the sound made her smile.

She lay down with him, her back pressed against his chest. His arm came around her, caressing her breast, lingering there when she responded by pushing her bottom into his groin. He moved his hand down, pressing his palm against her belly where their babies would have grown. She moved her hand atop his and they knew, they knew.

"It would have been a wonderful life, but so is this one," he whispered and she felt it against the back of her neck. She nodded. It was indeed … more than she could ever have hoped for.

"What do we do with this knowledge we have? The dream we share that can never be?" Her voice broke and she sobbed.

"Shh," he soothed, kissing the back of her neck sweetly.

"We love the children we do have, Isobel," he said easily, as though it was the most natural conclusion in the world. "Mary and Tom are grown, but they still look to us for guidance. Mary is far closer to you than she is her own mother."

Isobel nodded. She treasured the bond between herself and her daughter-in-law. Beauty did arise from ashes on occasion and, in the wake of Matthew's death, Mary had become the daughter of her heart.

"And Tom idolizes you," she said softly. "He's a great deal like me; impulsive and rash. You're the voice of reason that grounds us both." She gave a small, mirthful laugh. "They really are our children, aren't they?"

"Indeed," he agreed. He smiled and she could feel it where his lips met her neck. "And we make the memories with Sybbie and George that we would have made with our own youngsters. We're blessed to have our grandchildren with us so much of the time. They'll be our legacy, Bel. Tom and Mary, Sybbie and George … they'll carry our love with them long after we're gone. It's good to dream about what might've been … so long as we don't lose sight of the wonderful reality we do have."

She turned in his arms, her hands coming up to cradle his face. "You're a wise man, my love."

"And you are a treasure," he said, taking her lips in a searing kiss. She answered him with her own hungry mouth and urged him on top of her.

"Need you … like this. All right?" She gazed up at him lovingly, her eyes dark with desire.

"Of course, my beauty. May I touch you?" He smoothed the hair at her temples and rubbed the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip.

"Please," she keened. "Love me like you do, Richard."

He lowered his head, his lips ghosting over all of the places he adored: her neck, her collarbones, her breasts, her belly. He moved lower, his hands joining with his lips at her center, bringing her to the brink of release. She clutched at him and drew him above her once more.

"Richard … now. Please," she panted.

It was all she needed to say, and he guided himself into her as her legs wrapped around his waist. He pushed forward until he was fully sheathed inside her warmth and stopped moving.

"Oh, beauty, this is—" Overwhelmed by sensation, he couldn't finish. Tight, warm, wet, his mind supplied. This woman, my wife. Her body. My home.

"I know, lover," she crooned. "It's so much, isn't it? So intense, this moment. Every time. Do you ever wish we could stay like this … just like this? It's everything, Richard." She could feel his pulse deep inside her and it was overpowering and erotic, unlike anything she'd ever felt before.

"You're everything, Isobel." He dropped his head into the crook of her neck and kissed her there, prolonging the moment until he just couldn't bear not to move.

She felt him straining to keep still and brought her lips to his forehead. "It's alright, love. Move for me."

He grasped her hands, entwining their fingers and effectively pinning her in place and he noted with astonishment the way she smiled almost wickedly in response. It aroused him greatly and he swore under his breath. She laughed in response and arched up against him, nipping at his lips. He worked a hand down to the tender place that brought her so much pleasure and stroked her gently as he pushed forward and drew back, and in response she began to murmur senselessly about how good it felt and how right they were and how much she loved him. He couldn't help smiling, for he loved her like this, wild and wanton and undone for him.

She surprised him further when she opened her eyes and looked straight into his. "I want you … with me, Richard. Can you?"

He understood what she was asking and his eyes widened at her forthrightness as he surged within her. "Good God, woman," he rasped. "You are a wonder. Here …" He replaced his hand with her own at her center and could not take his eyes off her as he watched her touching herself. She moaned and arched as he moved within her and then … then she stilled, her breath catching on an inhale as her walls began to contract around him. She looked into his eyes and the fire he saw in her gaze, combined with the feel of her, broke him. She pulled him to her and they clung to one another, breathless. He pressed his lips against the pulse pounding in her throat as the blood rushed in his ears.

When at last he began to come back to himself he realized she was speaking.

"Stay," she pleaded, "stay, stay, stay." Her want of him never ended with her release and she longed for him to remain above her, inside her, for as long as he could bear it.

"Shh," he whispered, kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her closed eyelids. "I'm not going anywhere, my Bel." Their chests pressed together as their breathing began to regulate. He felt her heart beating and understood the sentiment she had shared with him on so many occasions; that the moments after were as much a part of lovemaking as the act itself.

When he slipped out of her they both cried out at the lost connection, but he lay on his side behind her and wrapped himself around her and she sighed contentedly.

"I am so in love with you, Richard," she said, turning to look at him over her shoulder.

"And I with you, sweet Isobel," he answered, peppering her brow with kisses. "Always."

For all that they didn't have - youth, children born of their union, an endless stretch of time on the horizon, what they had was the stuff of dreams. Love had seen them through the highest mountaintops and deepest, darkest valleys. It was the foundation upon which his house had become their home; her family, his family. They would always wonder about what might have been if they had taken different roads, but before they drifted off to sleep that night they murmured to one another about new dreams, ones filled with the children and grandchildren with which they had been blessed; the love that would carry forward into time everlasting.


End file.
